January 3, 2013

• The Campers and the Dogs

  We have come to the conclusion that part of Annie’s genetic heritage is the hairless unspellable Mexican dog. Right now, in the height of winter, she has absolutely naked spots on her belly, the insides of her legs, her neck and behind her ears. I have accused her of trying to turn pink. Nancy did research on the Internet and determined she might have dry skin. So last weekend we bathed her in her anti-itch shampoo and then we slathered her with olive oil.

  It would appear the dog has connected olive oil with the cooking process: she reacts to the stuff on my hands as if I intended to ram a stake through her body and turn her slowly over an open flame. Omigod, omigod,omigod wails Annie as she flees through the house like a Missionary who’s found herself the guest of honor at a cannibals’ feast. Last night I downloaded another dog book, this one about desensitizing timid dogs to the things that frighten them. My dog, the scourge of the dog park, is terrified of my hands.

  In the meantime the neighbors have allowed thieves and murderers to nest of their roof. They have made their home in a big blue tarp and they hang out up there, apparently roasting neighborhood dogs and plotting mayhem. Worse, every now and then (and I know this is hard to believe) they TALK.

  Every time they commence talking, the black dog charges through the dog door, through the back yard, stations herself at the base of the fence and bark bark barks to drown out their evil plot. And then she races back into the house, squats beside my chair and slyly reports, “Riley’s barking, Cheryl…”

  I am torn. Should I tell the neighbor that thieves and murderers are nesting on their roof? Why don’t they already know? I watched an entire TV show last night where plumbers bought a fortune in electronic equipment and stalked around inside a house with unusual–they called it ‘paranormal’–activity and perceived energy fields that made them feel dizzy. It seems to me that plumbers might not be required to sense a horde of thieves and murderers camping on the roof.

  I personally would prefer the plumbers come encourage my reluctant drain, but it is possible I lack imagination. 

  I have to tell about last night’s adventure because it continues to amaze me. Nancy decided it was time for her to go to bed, so she dispensed Greenies, changed into her PJ’s and went to bed. This is an anxious time for Annie because although we have taken her to bed with us every night she has lived here, which is about four months now, there is always the question: What will happen to ME????  And she begins racing around the house 100 mph, grabbing things in her mouth, dragging them from one room to the next, making crazy swirls under the couch, down the hallway, just running, running, running until I am tired of the whole performance. I say, “Come on, Annie, let’s go to bed,” and I walk her to the bedroom doorway, open the door and say, “Go to bed.”

  Nancy baby-calls, “Where’s my dog?”

  Annie runs into the bedroom, vaults up onto the bed, cuddles up next to Nancy and I close the door.

  By the time I get to bed, Annie is sound asleep.

  She used to lay awake until I got there, but that’s fallen by the wayside.

  I might go to bed three minutes later: she’s still sound asleep. She runs into the room, jumps on the bed, wiggles her delight at finally finding Nancy after this long, torturous absence, falls over into the blankets and she’s out like a light. 

  Oh, thank God, they let me sleep with them again tonight. Zonk.

  Every night.

  Night after night.

  And tonight, she’ll suffer the same anxious concern all over again. But what about me? Where am I supposed to be? Oh why, oh why can’t the two of you stay in the same room?

  But for now she is content to chase away the roof thieves/killers. I would recognize the neighbor lady on sight–I know her name–and I know she’s married. Her husband, on the other hand, is very much like her invisible dog. He may/may not still be alive, and if I’ve ever seen him I was not aware that he was my backyard neighbor. Therefore he may/may not be one of the thieving killers stomping around on her roof. On the other hand, I only have one-fortieth of the sense of smell my smaller black companion has, so it stands to reason, at least in my mind, that she should know that–while it is unusual for this man to camp out on his roof–he remains the man who lives next door, only taller. Or not. So far the roof dwellers appear to work fairly normal work hours which, at this time of year, happen to coincide with daylight…

  I am about ready to report to the bottom of the fence and call, “Yo. Do you live here, or do you just come and camp out during the day? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  But I’m afraid he’ll answer, “Do you know your dogs bark damned near ALL of the time? And that, ‘God-dammit, shut UP’ you shout from your computer chair–that’s charming to listen to, too.”

  So for the time being I believe I will let camping murderers and thieves lie.

  • 10:05 am
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